


Became a home for a flock

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Belonging, Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Homecoming, M/M, Sea imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 19:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: No, he won't use cruel words. He won't use any words at all. The sea is cruel sometimes, but he doesn't have to be anymore. He can let go. He can be.How does the wreck become the home?





	Became a home for a flock

**Author's Note:**

> The title and inspiration for this fic are taken from [Toiler on the sea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flUxmdlhiHY), by The Stranglers.

The wind bites hard. The wind blurs into the white lines of the horizon. The wind bites hard, hard like a scream.

They are standing here, here on the edge of the world. If they take a step forward, they will leave the sea behind. They will walk into the cold unknown, into a dark place that is somewhere else. And there might be nothing for them out there, but, sure as hell, there isn't anything _here_.

And maybe they should go.

Here, the sea is cruel. The ice is sharp, and it hurts. And the seagulls fly, up there, and their wings are wild and cold. They are free. And that means something.

Yes, that means something to him. He has become angry and harsh and cruel, like this place. He knows. He can't help it, but he will make it right. He wants to. He _will_.

How does the wreck become the home? The whiteness seems to ask him, but he doesn't know. No. He swears he doesn't. His hands have always been rough, but now they are tired. Too tired, too lost, out here. Among the sharp shards of ice, he searches, he looks for answers. It might be too late. But if there is something here, if there is something else, he will take it. He needs to find something.

The sky goes on forever and it hurts his eyes. And yes, he is beyond tired, and he can't really see, but he knows that the snow is so, so bright. Perhaps, all its shades of white are a meaning in themselves. No, he can't see very far, but he can almost feel the midnight sun. Soft and perfect, like a mirage.

It hurts, but it's real. 

He rests, only for a moment. Behind his eyelids, he feels these strange shades, wild watercolours, hiding there, taking shelter. The colours in the sky frame a new world, like a dream. And if he could see it clearly, if he could only see it for a moment, he would know. He would know, and he wouldn't turn back.

The days go by. And they reach the land. They walk. They go.

*

He walks with Thomas, and they share the silence. They get used to watching the lights, because there is nothing else to do. But it's alright. Right now, these colours aren't cruel. Neither are these words, these hands, these scars they don't hide anymore. They lean on each other, softly, softly. And he is touched and grateful and comforted, and he would like to say it. He would like to.

But there isn't enough time. They are far away, so far away, perhaps forever. The world seeps slowly through the fabric of his coat. The world surrounds them. It waits and it grows and it stretches out in front of them. And if they keep on walking, if they go forward out there, tracing and retracing steps, he might never get another chance.

He needs to tell him, among these white, endless blankets of ice. He needs to tell him. If they never find the way again, at least he will have this. He will have something.

He has to be here, out here in the cold. But the world is big, far beyond all maps, and the wind almost carries some hope with it, here, by the wide, wide sea. And the light isn't cruel, and it still gives him some comfort. And he feels it, and the time is now. It's time to speak, to be truly _here_. And if he can't tell him, perhaps he can find his hand instead, and hold on. Hold on, and let him know.

No, he won't use cruel words. He won't use any words at all. The sea is cruel sometimes, but he doesn't have to be anymore. He can let go. He can _be_.

The world freezes for a moment, but all the birds point the way somehow. And he can open his eyes now. There is a rich, dark twilight within them, and he can almost see that first sun. No, this world doesn't belong to them. And he doesn't belong here in this northern sky. But their hands find each other, never mind the fog, and he knows, and surely, he belongs _here_.

He doesn't turn away. No, he doesn't turn back. This, _this_ is what he went overseas for. This question, this answer, this place that he might reach, this land and this harbour and this home built by Thomas and his arms and his love, this love that doesn't let in the cold. If he has nothing else, he still has this love.

Here, encompassed by the sea ice, the sunrise feels like an answer, one that finally makes sense. They are tired but they are free, the flock of them. They've found a home of sorts. And yes, now he sees it, among the lights and the fog and the stars. Now he knows it's true.


End file.
